


For Services Rendered

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, First Kiss, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Happy Ending, Hospital, Injured Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft Has A Serious Crush, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Rampant Feelings, Romantic Fluff, romantic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13025097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Greg Lestrade doesn't believe in the magic of Christmas. Now his nieces and nephews are grown, it's become just another day of the year. But when he runs into Sherlock's brother Mycroft in Accident and Emergency on Christmas Eve, a memorable Christmas might be on the cards after all.





	1. Shoulder

Greg clapped the coin flat to the back of his hand.

"Right," he said, looking into his sergeant's eyes. "Now it's done, and there's no going back... what do you _want_ it to be?"

Sally grinned, shaking her head. It was the last week of November, and they were sitting at Greg's desk with the duty rota spreadsheet half-finished on his screen.

"You know I don't care," she said. "We do this every year, Greg. It really doesn't matter."

"It does," her boss said with a smile, his hand still cupped over the coin. "Last-week-of-November-coin-toss-argument is now tradition - and Christmas is all about tradition. So... heads? _I'll_ work Christmas Day. Tails, _you_ work Christmas Day. Right? Then whoever works it, gets Christmas Eve off. Just like last year."

She sighed, smiling still. "I'll take both, if you want... you know I would."

"Yeah, well... problem is, your D.I. is a pain in the arse who insists on you having proper time-off over Christmas. So this is the way we have to do things."

"Right. Fine," Sally sighed. "Heads, you work Christmas Day..."

"That's what you want, is it?" Greg said. He raised his eyebrows. "'Cause I can add it to the spreadsheet now, Sal. I'll work Christmas Day. S'not a problem. I can put the quid back in my wallet, and we'll go by what you want."

"For god's sake, Greg. It honestly doesn't matter. Just do what the coin says."

"You _honestly_ don't have a preference?"

"Honestly. We'll do it this way."

"So if this is tails," he said, warning her, "and you're working Christmas Day, you'll be alright with that? Last chance to tell me you want it off."

"I'll be alright with it. Coin decides."

"Promise?"

"Promise," said Sally.

Slowly Greg revealed the coin.

It was tails.

"Right," said Greg.

He took a breath.

"Now... do you _want_ to go by what the coin's said, or shall we - "

Sally lunged for his mouse, grinning. She navigated to Monday December 25th, tapped all the way down to the correct cell, and entered in quick and decisive strikes of the keyboard: _DS S DONOVAN_.

"There," she said. "You're off Christmas Day. It's done."

"You know I'm just gonna lie around in my pants, don't you? Watching crap films, and eating my sad divorced bloke 'turkey for one' microwave meal? You should have the day off, Sally. Your sister's kids are still little. My brother's lot are obnoxious teenagers now. C'mon, I'll work Christmas Day. I don't mind."

"You've already done the spreadsheet," she said with a grin, pointing at the screen. "The duty rota spreadsheet is _law,_ Greg. And in fact…"

She tapped across to the next column - Christmas Eve - and added in block capitals: _DI G LESTARDE._

"You're now down to work Christmas Eve," she said. "So that's that. It's done. Fate is decided."

"Hang on," said Greg, wheeling his chair forward. He squinted at the screen. "It's not. Who's this DI Lestarde that'll apparently be in charge? What division's he from? Why's he been assigned to mine?"

"What are you - …? Oh! _God._ Hang on, I'm just typing at a weird angle - let me - "

"Wait, Sally. Don't touch it. Go ring round the other divisions. I wanna know who this 'Lestarde' bell-end is, thinks he can muscle in on my Christmas Eve shift. Give me the keyboard, sergeant. I have a furious e-mail to write."

"Oh my god, it was a typo! Look, just let me correct it and then - "

"But it's on my duty rota spreadsheet. The spreadsheet is law, Sally."

"Christ, you're always like this. Why are you always like this?"

"We'll talk about that later. I have to get to the bottom of something." Greg snatched up the receiver of his phone. "Dawn! Transfer me to some dickhead called Lestarde. I want to know how he got into my duty rota spreadsheet, and what right he thinks he has to my Christmas Eve shift."

Sally covered her face. "Is it January yet?"

 

*

 

For all the fuss that it caused to his duty rotas, Greg couldn't actually give a toss about Christmas. It was sad, maybe, but true. He didn't _hate_ this time of year, not by any means - he wasn't some kind of Scrooge - and he had plenty of happy memories from when his nieces and nephews were little. Christmasses then had been a riot of wrapping paper, silly jumpers and chocolate tins, cracker hats and noisy games, and he would always miss those days.

But as soon as the kids got old enough to ask for iPhones, Christmas lost some of its magic.

The day itself was now more likely to feature hormonal teenage meltdowns than any kind of family togetherness. Last year the kids hadn't even been able to sit through _Frozen_ without a fight. Worse, Andy's marriage had been limping a bit this year - he and Nichola had quietly trialled a separation over summer, and while it had all been smoothed over since, the cracks were starting to show.

Even before the traditional coin toss with Sally, Greg had decided - if it fell his way this year - that he'd tell his brother he was working. He knew it was a bit tragic, but really, when you were a single bloke in your forties, Christmas was just another day.

It was a nice enough idea, he supposed - but who could live up to all that pressure? The telly seemed to spend the whole six weeks beforehand telling you all about the Christmas miracles you were meant to be having, all the magical memories you were meant to be making. Every advert from gravy granules to sofas and mobile phone networks was preaching Christmas, cramming down your throat what a special time of year it was. Greg wasn't a fanciful bloke. He didn't go in for a lot of sentiment; he didn't believe in fate, or magic, or miracles.

Every year, often even before December rolled around, he found himself feeling a bit cynical with it all - a little weary. Corporations which spent all year dodging taxes, raising prices and getting away with whatever they could were suddenly gushing on about the magic of togetherness. Families who were unhappy were expected to spend the day pretending things were not only fine, but so wonderful it could be called a miracle. Everybody forgot that crimes were still committed, that nurses still worked twelve-hour shifts for crap pay, and that all the problems of November would be waiting right there in January.

Marriage hadn't really helped nurture much of the magic in Christmas. Greg's ex hadn't been all that interested in magic, romance or togetherness - just having a fight Christmas morning if he'd got her the wrong Pandora beads. The whole holiday had brought out the worst of her, really. She'd bitched about all the happy noise that Greg's nieces and nephews used to make with their toys, and moaned about having to watch Christmas films with them. She'd complained about Andy's cooking (even though Greg's brother was a _chef,_ for Christ's sake) and she'd worried loudly and often about her waistline, then sulked if nobody rushed to reassure her - especially if Greg hadn't. Greg's Christmas present had usually been expensive lingerie for her, which he'd got to look at once or twice before it vanished to the back of a drawer.

His first Christmas without her had been a bloody relief, frankly. He'd loved every minute of it - lying on the sofa with a Terry's Chocolate Orange, watching _Die Hard,_ then making himself a curry. Nobody had shouted at him for a thing.

Fucking bliss.

So really, he wasn't in a rush to get back in the game.

And he wasn't in a rush to reconcile with Christmas.

He'd take a lazy summer barbeque over Christmas any day. At least there was some authenticity to that - doing it because you _wanted_ to, not just because it was one set day in the year.

So whether he worked Christmas Eve, or whether he worked the day itself, Greg honestly didn't care.

Nothing miraculous was going to happen, after all.

 

*

 

By the time Christmas Eve came around, Greg hadn't even bothered to decorate. Some part of him felt like he should see this as a new low - but the rest of him said it meant no need to take it all down again in January.

He told Andy he was working both days and dropped the kids' presents off the week before. He bought himself a fancy ready meal from M&S to have on Christmas Day. He picked out a stack of DVDs to work through, and new pyjamas to do it in, and got spare pillows ready on the couch.

It was going to be a lazy Christmas.

And it was going to be _fantastic._

On Christmas Eve, he woke up to a bit of a Friday feeling - looking forward to the day off tomorrow, if nothing else. He showered and shaved, got dressed and made himself a ham sandwich, then headed off for work.

 

*

 

The day which passed was nothing unusual - people were more cheerful, maybe. It would do. It was a bonus. Six o'clock crept closer and closer, and Greg's day off came nearer and nearer.

Then, at a quarter to six, they got the call.

Domestic violence in Lambeth. Major incident. A woman had attacked her husband with a lamp, having found a Christmas card from his mistress in his briefcase. The guy'd been taken to hospital with head injuries, and the wife was in custody, while uniformed officers had been sent to ship the poor kids off to their granny's. _What a Christmas for them to remember,_ Greg thought. _So much for the magic of togetherness._

Someone was now needed to get to the hospital, to take a statement from the guy.

Most other people had crept off early for Christmas - home to their partners, home to their kids.

Greg couldn't say no.

Promising himself a glass of Baileys when he got home, and an early start on this year's Chocolate Orange, he got into his car and set off for A&E.

 

*

 

It was a forty minute wait before the guy was pronounced well enough to speak to Greg. The wife had given him a hell of a battering - black eye, stitches down his forehead, cut lip and bruising all across his face.

He was a bit of a douche, all the same.

Greg took the guy's statement with a measured expression, sticking to events and times and facts. _Magical family memories,_ he thought to himself as he wrote, ignoring some of the additional details offered (the mistress was a 32DD; the wife never wanted sex anymore). _The miracle of Christmas. Share something special with the ones you love._

Eventually the statement was done. Greg got it all typed out, logged it onto the system through his phone, and politely declined the nurses' offer of a cup of tea.

He'd best be going, he said.

"Christmas," he explained with a grin - not adding that by _'Christmas',_ he meant _'chocolate orange with my name on it'._

The nurses understood. They wished him a good one, waved him off the ward, and settled back into the next six hours of their shifts.

Meanwhile, Greg headed for the main entrance - thinking only of his sofa, his blanket pile, and how large a glass of Baileys he would soon be pouring himself. It was Christmas Eve, and the night was young. He'd do the _Father Ted_ Christmas special first, then maybe _Jumanji._ He always forgot it was a Christmas film until that scene right at the end. He'd remembered this year. It was going to be nice to watch it at actual Christmas for once.

As he neared the hospital doors, Greg spotted some poor bloke on crutches trying to get the damn things open. He must have come from A&E. Nobody nearby was helping him.

Greg picked up his pace, jogged across Reception, and pushed open the door.

"Here, mate," he said, putting a friendly hand on his arm. "Let me get that for you."

It was only as the man jumped that Greg got a proper look at him - and realised, with astonishment.

It was Mycroft Holmes - Sherlock's bloody brother.

Mycroft looked even more startled to see Greg than Greg was to see him. He wasn't in his usual get-up, not a Saville Row suit or an Oxford loafer in sight. Instead, he looked pale and oddly vulnerable in old corduroy trousers and an over-large blue-grey jumper - the nearest things that had been to hand, Greg assumed, pulled on in haste.

For a second, Greg was on the verge of telling Mycroft he hadn't recognised him with crutches - which would have gone down brilliantly, no doubt.

"Ah - thank you, Detective Inspector…" Mycroft Holmes sounded rather desperately embarrassed. "How kind. Why hospital doors are made so difficult for the injured and the weakened to open, I shan't ever know..."

Greg realised, with a slight flush, that he'd just called Mycroft Holmes 'mate'. He doubted many people could make that claim.

"S'alright," he said. "I'm sorry nobody was giving you a hand. You had an accident?"

As Mycroft negotiated himself out into the night, Greg caught the distinct flash of mortification that crossed his face. He didn't want to be seen this way, Greg realised. He didn't like being helpless.

"I, ah - managed to injure myself leaving the shower this afternoon," Mycroft said, stiffly. "Strange to think these things still occur on Christmas, but..." His brow creased. "Somehow I feel I should have devised a more festive injury for myself."

Greg found himself smiling. "Ankle, is it?"

"Yes, though I managed to twist the opposite knee in the same motion... the young lady made some remark about 'Bambi' which was rather lost on me."

Greg smiled sadly. The hours he'd spent watching that film, he thought - the sofa, the kids, Christmas Eve in their pyjamas, all four of them slowly falling to sleep around him. _Days long gone._

"Is that gorgeous Audi of yours lurking somewhere?" he asked, as he patted his pockets for his car keys. "Driver coming to collect you?"

Mycroft had leant against a nearby concrete pillar. Greg glanced around, and was concerned to see him panting slightly with pain, trying to repress it.

"Ah, no... my driver is sadly unavailable." Mycroft gritted his teeth for a moment, shutting his eyes. "I thought I'd have no further need of a car until after Christmas, so I dismissed him. It's - quite alright though, Detective Inspector. Please don't trouble yourself."

"Are you sure?" said Greg. He watched Mycroft's chest rise and fall quickly. "It doesn't look alright."

"Some residual pain," Mycroft managed. "But I'm alright, thank you."

"Right..." Greg wasn't buying that for a second. "How're you getting home without your driver?"

"I intended to call for a taxi."

Greg smiled a little. "It's Christmas Eve, Mycroft. You know you'll be waiting at least an hour, don't you?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. Misery flickered across his expression. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, but Greg saw it as clear as the Oxford Street lights. He'd had a long and awful day. The prospect of another hour waiting here drained the life from him.

He watched Mycroft take up his grip on his crutches again, resigning himself to what must be.

"In that case," Mycroft said, weakly, "I don't suppose you'd get the door for me once again before you leave, inspector? I'd better return to the warmth, whilst I wait..."

Something tugged in Greg's chest. He wanted to go home more than anything. It had been a long shift, and he was starving - but he couldn't just leave the poor bastard like this, not when he had a perfectly good car round the corner and a passenger seat going spare.

"C'mon," he said with a smile, offering an arm. "I'm only parked a hundred yards away. I'll take you home."

Mycroft flushed at once.

"Oh, I... are you quite certain? That would - if it isn't an inconvenience..."

"It's fine," Greg grinned. Before any protest could be formed, he took one of the crutches and slid his shoulder carefully beneath Mycroft's arm. "These things are giving you grief, aren't they? You're too tall for them... lean on me."

He felt Mycroft nervously retain his weight for a moment, before settling just a little of it onto Greg.

"You're - too kind, inspector," he mumbled. "Really."

"It's not a problem," said Greg. "I've got nowhere to be."

Mycroft leant a little more on him. "Thank you..." he said. "You're really very kind."

They set off, taking tentative steps along the pavement. Greg was the perfect height to do this. Mycroft began to settle onto him more, and they found a quiet rhythm of steps which worked.

Halfway to the car, Greg realised Mycroft had gone quiet. He was breathing rather deeply again.

"Go slow, alright?" he said. "Doesn't matter if it takes us until Boxing Day. We'll get there."

Mycroft swallowed, gripping onto his other shoulder for support. "Thank you. I'm - sorry to..."

"Don't mention it," said Greg. "Just tell yourself I'm your piece of Christmas good luck this year."

Mycroft's cheeks flared once more, saying nothing.

He held tightly onto Greg all the way to the car.

 


	2. Company

Mycroft lived in Kensington. The street was gorgeous, pristinely clean and tastefully illuminated for Christmas, and the building itself was almost a work of art. It didn't look like Greg would have to worry about having his car keyed, at least.

He parked outside, got out and circled around to open the door for Mycroft.

"Here we go," he said, leaning down. "Arms 'round me... I'll lift you up on three, alright?"

Mycroft's blush deepened as he secured his arms around Greg's neck. The lack of protest was curious, Greg thought. He wouldn't have imagined Mycroft Holmes would be happy with people touching him. He supposed there wasn't an expensive suit to mess up on this occasion.

"One - two - three..." Greg lifted Mycroft carefully from the passenger seat, hooking a gentle arm around his back to support him. Mycroft leant against his chest for a moment as he straightened up, then anxiously took a step back. He was panting again. "You alright?" said Greg.

"I - suspect I might have jarred my back when I fell. Anti-inflammatories, I've been told." Mycroft shuffled awkwardly out of the way of the car door. "Inspector, you're too kind by far. Thank you."

He hesitated.

"I should be quite fine by myself from here," he said, "if you…"

Greg smiled, locking his car with a quiet press of his keys.

"D'you mind if I see you safely inside?" he asked. "I don't want you to fall again, 'specially if you've hurt your back. Sherlock'd never forgive me if I just dumped you on the doorstep." He gave Mycroft a reassuring smile. "Can I give you my shoulder again?"

The blush was rather endearing, he thought - especially with those eyes - grey, cool, slightly awkward eyes, doing their best to pretend they had everything in hand. It was only Mycroft's cheeks which revealed the truth of his embarrassment.

"If it's not a problem," he said.

Greg's smile softened. He dipped himself beneath Mycroft's arm again, gladly taking his weight.

"Good job I was here," he said, as he helped Mycroft to the door. "Anybody taller and this wouldn't work so well."

"I'm deeply in your debt, i-inspector. And very sorry to have inconvenienced you."

"Seriously," said Greg. "It's _fine._ Stop apologising. I'm sorry you had to get yourself to A&E on your own. Can't have been easy."

"No," Mycroft said, wearily. "No, it wasn't. It's been a memorable Christmas, at least... though, perhaps not for reasons one usually welcomes."

He let them into the building; Greg helped him over the step.

"What floor are you?" he asked.

Mycroft winced. "Three."

"S'alright. We've got this far, haven't we? Few flights of stairs won't defeat us." As he assisted Mycroft up the first step, Greg found himself smiling. "Shame I'm not a fireman," he said. "Could've just hefted you over my shoulder and carried you up. That'd be a story to treasure."

A fascinating look flickered across Mycroft's face. He hid it swiftly, concerning himself with the navigation of the next step - though when he next raised his head, his blush had deepened to a distinct raspberry stain.

Greg started to wonder.

"Might I - ask you something, inspector?" Mycroft asked, after several more steps.

Greg wondered even more.

"Sure," he said, as they completed the first flight of stairs and took a second to pause at the top. Mycroft was panting again. "Go on."

Mycroft took a moment to speak, a hand lingering on his lower back. He needed painkillers, Greg thought. He couldn't believe the hospital hadn't given him any - but then, if he was so quick to reject help... nurses were busy and Mycroft Holmes was stubborn.

"Kindly don't inform my brother of this," Mycroft said, with a tired flash of his eyes.

"Of course I won't," said Greg. "Don't be ridiculous. Sherlock won't hear a word, I promise."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Thank you."

They started the second flight of stairs in silence.

At the top of the third flight, Mycroft gripped Greg's shoulder gently - a squeeze almost, as if feeling the material of his coat one last time - then said,

"Thank you, Inspector Lestrade, I - should now be fine."

Greg hesitated. He knew he should go. Mycroft had told him enough times, and he didn't really have any more excuse to linger. He'd got Mycroft safely to the door, he thought - he'd be alright now.

But he found himself reluctant to leave.

He didn't know why. He supposed he wanted to see Mycroft through the door of his flat and safely inside.

He sort of wanted to see what his home was like, too. All those suits and carefully pressed handkerchiefs. The place probably looked like a modern art gallery, Greg thought, sparse and minimal, cutlery which matched the kitchen cupboard doors.

"Let me see some painkillers in you," he said, with a smile. "Then I'll leave you be. I promise."

Mycroft looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something - then glanced away, took his key from his pocket, and fitted it into the lock.

As the door swung open to admit him, Greg's jaw nearly dropped.

A Christmas tree fit for a boutique hotel greeted them in the entrance. The thing was enormous, glittering with hundreds of gold lights that had been left on even while its owner was away. Its branches were bedecked with carefully tied cream satin ribbons, spray-painted pine cones and ornate wooden animals nestled safely within its needles.

As they stepped inside, Greg found himself looking around in amazement. A gorgeous Victorian-style wreath was hanging on the back of the door, thick with berries and ivy. Holly wound its way around every corner of the ceiling, glittering with tiny gold bells, and he could smell cinnamon and spices - as if someone had been making mulled wine for days. As Mycroft nervously indicated the way into a palatial lounge, Greg's eyes nearly leapt from his head - there was a second Christmas tree in here, even more gorgeous and richly decorated than the first. Christmas lights sparkled and shimmered in every possible place - around mirrors and bookshelves, around the window, around the television, twinkling softly in the elegant darkness.

It was beautiful.

He'd never been so shocked in all his life.

As he supported Mycroft over to the couch, he found himself struggling to think. Mycroft panted faintly as Greg lowered him onto the cushions, pale now and looking desperately relieved.

"Where d'you keep painkillers?" Greg asked him.

"Oh, I... they're in the kitchen."

"Through that door there, is it?"

"Inspector, are you certain? You're - so helpful."

Greg smiled, suppressing the thump of his heart. He couldn't believe it. Mycroft Holmes was a Christmas nut. "Where're glasses?"

"A-Above the sink," Mycroft said. The slight skip in his voice seemed to catch on the rhythm of Greg's heart.

"Alright," said Greg, gently. "Sit there. I'll get them for you."

He headed through to the kitchen - stainless steel and black granite. Mycroft had even decorated in here. _Who decorates their kitchen for Christmas?_ Greg thought, gazing in amazement as the scattering of tiny silver stars across the fridge. There was even a small tree, deep green and wound with little white lights. It was incredible.

Trying not to linger, lest Mycroft wonder what the fuck he was doing, Greg fixed up a glass of water and some painkillers. He found a packet of digestives in the cupboard next to the glasses and brought them through as well.

"You'll need food with ibruprofen," he said, placing the biscuits, the water and the drug packets down on the coffee table, beside a sculpted wire reindeer. Mycroft was gazing at him rather round-eyed. "How's your ankle?"

"It's - fine, thank you," Mycroft managed.

"And your knee?"

"Also fine." Mycroft smiled faintly, embarrassed. "Better to be out of use."

Greg smiled too, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat. "And how's your back?"

Mycroft flushed. "Inspector, your - kindness is..." The fingers of his left hand curled into themselves, tightly.

A decision seemed to be made.

"Perhaps you'd stay for a drink," he said. The words came out in a slight rush. "To thank you. My gratitude, for... f-for services rendered."

Greg's heart contracted.

He looked at Mycroft for a moment, wondering if he was really seeing what he was sensing. _Surely not,_ he thought.  _Don't be stupid. The guy's being polite. Probably not even gay._

Greg then took a mental recheck of the room around him - and admitted to himself there was a small chance Mycroft Holmes _might_ be gay.

He thought, too, of the way Mycroft had blushed and held onto him every step of the way here - how embarrassed he'd been to look up and realising it was Greg rushing to his aid, offering him a lift - how nervous he was even now, gazing at Greg with a flushed and hopeful expression which didn't seem at all like the calm, cool ease of politeness. His gaze was too intense, the colour in his cheeks too deep. He was waiting too intently for the answer.

 _Oh,_ Greg thought, as everything clicked into place.

A curious, fascinated shiver spread across his chest.

It had been years. A guy. Not since before his ex. When he was young, there'd been a stage when he'd stuck almost exclusively to men - happy, easy bonds which had been as much about friendship as sex and love. He'd often missed them when he'd been dealing with the worst of his marriage. He'd missed the ease of it all. He'd missed those honest arrangements where nobody was _the husband,_ nobody was _the wife,_ and instead you just found your own way together. You asked for what you actually wanted, and gave who you actually were.

Now here was Mycroft Holmes, gazing at him like _that -_ wanting him to stay a while. Shy and mortified but enjoying having Greg support him, hold him, lift him out of a car.

_Christ, I'm so blind sometimes._

He realised with a thrill Mycroft was still waiting for an answer, visibly starting to panic.

"Sure," Greg said, startling himself almost as much as Mycroft. He smiled as he felt his heart give a quiet happy hop. _Christ. Who knew._ "Sure, I'd love to."

Mycroft's face flooded with relief - with _joy,_ Greg thought. It quickly softened, but he'd seen it.

He wondered with astonishment how long Mycroft had been wanting to ask him that. It couldn't just be today. Mycroft had been blushing to hell from the second Greg appeared beside him. 

They'd met nearly two years ago now.

_Jesus. Surely not, though._

Telling himself to get a grip, Greg reached up to unbutton his coat.

"Okay," he said, determined not to be nervous. It was just a drink, he thought. Nothing would happen. "First question, then... where d'you keep your booze? Don't get up - you have a digestive and your painkillers, and I'll fetch it. Anything else I can bring while I'm at it?"

Mycroft fidgeted gently with the sleeves of his jumper. His eyes shone - a giddy happiness, carefully restrained. Greg wondered if the pain was making him less guarded, or if it was the trauma of a hospital trip - _or,_ he thought wildly, _maybe it's me._ Some combination of all three, perhaps.

"I... if you truly didn't mind, I _am_ rather cold. Poor circulation. There's a blanket kept on my bed - a-and the drinks cabinet is in my bedroom as well. By the window." Mycroft's chest expanded. "Do help yourself to what you'd like."

_Behave, Lestrade._

"Right," said Greg, smiling. "Anything else?"

"No, that's - quite everything. Thank you."

Greg left him sitting on the couch, and went off to find the bedroom.

It was a roomier apartment than London usually offered, but compact enough to find his way around. After a couple of tested doors, he found the right one. He was unsurprised to find Mycroft's bedroom had also been decorated for the season. Its underlying colours were softer shades of cream and cocoa, which Mycroft had augmented for Christmas with pale gold. There were a great many candles laid out, and a plush fake fur throw cast across the bed. Greg found his stomach tightening at the thought Mycroft spent time in here by candlelight beneath fake fur.

He wondered what Mycroft wore to bed.

_Christ, Lestrade. Stop it._

Greg lifted the faux fur, looking for a blanket - then realised the fur _was_ the blanket, and it was _this_  Mycroft wanted. He really must be cold. With the fur over one shoulder, Greg crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner and bent down, taking an intrigued nosy through the contents. Mycroft had a bottle of most things in stock, including a fairly high-end amaretto. Greg picked it up, along with a nice whiskey, then carried both the bottles and the fur back to the lounge.

Mycroft looked up with almost desperate gratitude as he reappeared. He wrapped himself in the fur blanket at once, nestling inside it with a longing shiver. Greg wondered exactly how miserable it had been for him in A&E on his own, Christmas Eve, with three separate injuries and nobody even to hold a door for him.

As he sat down beside Mycroft on the sofa, he said,

"You had a tough time at the hospital, didn't you?" He couldn't help but notice the soft, restless enjoyment his proximity caused.

"It's been a little arduous, I'll admit."

"I bet you're relieved to be home." Greg unscrewed the cap of the amaretto. "Is this alright?" he asked. "I didn't know what you'd fancy... figured if you'd had already drunk half the bottle, it can't be that bad."

Mycroft tried a tentative smile. "I'm content with amaretto," he said. "And yes. Deeply relieved. It's not often I come up against physical injury. I always try to be quite careful, but..."

"Accidents happen," Greg said, as he filled Mycroft's glass. "Don't worry. You've come out of it in one piece... just need a day or two with your feet up, and you'll be fine."

"Yes, the physician also said that." Mycroft took the glass quietly. "Thank you."

Greg couldn't fight a grin. "It's _your_ amaretto, Mycroft."

Mycroft's blush deepened gorgeously. "All the same, you're - kind to - "

"... go to the trouble of opening it for you? Honestly, it's fine. You can stop thanking me. I just hope I'm not - intruding, I s'pose. Christmas Eve."

Desperation flickered through the depths of Mycroft's eyes. "No," he said, quickly. "No, not at all. It's rather nice to have y-... company. Truly, inspector. You're not intruding."

Greg smiled, pouring himself a glass.

"Call me 'Greg' will you?" he said. "I'm a friend of the family. You don't have to stand on ceremony for me."

As he glanced into Mycroft's eyes, he realised he'd just made the man's Christmas.

His heart swooped a little in his chest.

"Greg," Mycroft said, gently, testing his name - getting a feel for it in his mouth. His expression remained polite and guarded, but his eyes were shining brighter than both of his trees.

_God, Sherlock'd kill me if he knew what I was thinking right now._

Greg imagined Sherlock briefly, somewhere across London, feeling the first flutters of a sudden panic attack with no idea why.

"Hey," Greg said, hoping against hope that he'd been reading all this right so far. "I'm gonna be cheeky here. I don't know if you had plans or anything, but I'm sorta starving. I bet you've not eaten all day, either. D'you - want to order a takeaway? Seeing as it's Christmas Eve."

Mycroft's mouth opened.

It closed quickly.

"I had no plans." He hesitated, flushing. "Aside from watching a number of terrible films, but then I've embarrassed myself already before you today. So... y-yes, that would be wonderful."

"What's your usual? Do you go for Chinese, or Indian, or...?"

He watched brief panic cross Mycroft's eyes - that moment of trying to predict what someone you fancied would like, so you could claim it was definitely your favourite and always had been.

"You've got a Chinese menu on your kitchen noticeboard," Greg suggested, with a grin. "How's that?"

Relief washed over the look of anxiety. "If you're happy with..."

"Yeah, of course. I'll go grab it. You get your ankle elevated, will you? And the knee as well - here, let me get you a cushion. Then we'll find out what counts as a 'terrible film'. Better not be all my favourites."

 


	3. Sofa

Mycroft would not casually throw around the phrase 'Christmas miracle' - but as he found himself sitting in his lounge on Christmas Eve, eating Chinese food with the single most attractive man in London, who was showing no signs whatsoever of wanting to leave, he wasn't sure any other phrase could possibly be applied.

The truth was - and he knew all too keenly it was tragic - that Mycroft had rather hopelessly adored Gregory Lestrade for some time now.

Ever since first he'd laid eyes on the man, he'd known he was doomed. The initial breathtaking waves of physical fascination had been superseded in time by an even more overpowering attraction, as he discovered Lestrade was brave, noble-minded and an excellent influence on Sherlock. Years had passed, and Mycroft had come to learn he was also amusing and patient and kind. Today he'd discovered Greg smelt like utter heaven, had shoulders like a Greek god and warm hands which were gentle, and somehow managed to be even more handsome at close range than he was from afar.

At first, Mycroft had begged the universe to explain why it was choosing to torture him - today of all days. Not only was it his beloved Christmas Eve, but also the day he'd rendered himself a helpless mess in the shower - and here was the man who made his pulse speed out of control, here to witness his utter indignity as he battled and lost against hospital doors.

Then Greg had dipped gently beneath his arm, lowered him into the passenger seat of a car, and guided him with kindness to the very seat of his couch - wanted to stay for a drink - a takeaway.

Mycroft couldn't believe it.

As Greg had gone to collect the food from downstairs, he'd semi-seriously entertained the possibility he'd actually struck his head while falling through the shower curtain - that this was all some deliriously wonderful concussion, and when he awoke, he would beg bitterly to be returned to it at once.

It all seemed to be real so far, though - desperately, divinely real.

"D'you want a spring roll?" Greg offered one across. "They're fantastic."

They weren't the only thing, Mycroft thought. He took a spring roll, smiling with delight, and in exchange handed over a small clutch of wontons.

"Seriously? Thanks," said Greg. "I love these things... man, you've got a great Chinese. The one near me is a bit hit and miss."

They were watching _The Vicar of Dibley_ Christmas special. Mycroft had barely dared to utter the name, but Greg had pounced on it with enthusiasm and the DVD was put straight in the machine. With his various injuries now elevated onto the coffee table, Chinese food on his lap, Greg Lestrade at his side and Gary Waldhorn on the television, Mycroft was quite possibly the happiest man in the world.

Then Greg sighed, twisting a forkful of chow mein into his mouth as he settled deeper into the sofa, and said, "She should have married David Horton."

Mycroft's head snapped around. "I have _often_ thought that."

"I know she married Richard Armitage in the end," Greg conceded, gesturing with noodles. "And fair play to her, but David was such a _softie_ deep down. The way he _looked_ at her... he'd have made her happy."

_Dear god._

"I - always thought it unlikely that Richard Armitage should be wandering freely around an Oxfordshire village," Mycroft said. "The man would clearly have been accosted by someone."

Greg snorted with amusement into his noodles.

"I know what you mean," he said. "David was there from the start, though. He was _always_ there."

"He was," Mycroft said, trying not to sound dazed. He hesitated, selecting a wonton. "Not that Richard Armitage would be turned away at the door, of course."

Greg laughed, pulling his socked feet up onto the sofa beneath him. "He's your type, is he?" he asked. "Armitage?"

There was a note of casualness to his voice which did not quite match the way he avoided Mycroft's eye, busying himself with noodles.

Mycroft's heart leapt, realising his sexuality was being ascertained - and the implications of _that_ were too impossibly thrilling to comprehend. He tried not to think about it, lest he lose the ability to speak entirely.

"I... not sure I'm inclined towards a 'type' as such..." He wanted to say more than that - to leave some hint, some trail that could be followed, if it were by any miracle of interest. "I tend towards... good men, I suppose. Kind men."

"Tall?" Greg asked. "Handsome?"

"Handsome is - subjective, I suppose, but welcome. Tall is... not always necessary."

Greg smiled, saying nothing, and occupied himself with another spring roll.

For a few moments, Mycroft envisioned it - flinging the plate from Greg Lestrade's hands with a sweep of his arm, seizing the man by the front of his work shirt and screaming, _tell me! Tell me you are gay this very instant!_ \- but it seemed an uncouth way to treat a guest. It would also lead to awkward future encounters if the answer was a startled no.

A more subtle approach might be wise.

Trying to pretend he was not on the brink of cardiac arrest, Mycroft said,

"Do you have a - 'type'?"

Greg looked down into his food, sifting through noodles with his fork to find a piece of chicken. "My ex was... high maintenance and a bit shallow, really," he said. "If I'm honest with myself, a lot of my girlfriends were. I must look like a guy who's happy to carry shopping bags."

Mycroft's heart sank. He kept the sensation away from his face.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. _Of course he is heterosexual,_ he thought. _The odds and the evidence always suggested so._ Not only heterosexual, but specialised to a certain type of hyper-feminine female - a female who knew herself to be a fitting trophy for a certain type of hyper-masculine male.

It was not a surprise, Mycroft thought. Still it was a disappointment.

Then Greg said, calmly,

"My boyfriends were more of a mixed bag."

Mycroft's heart hurled itself at the front wall of his chest, and began to batter his ribs in demand. Swallowing a mouthful of food, he managed a casual, "Oh?

Greg smiled, watching _The Vicar of Dibley_ and twirling noodles around his fork as he spoke.

"Yeah. It was... more about the connection, I guess. What we came up with together." He paused, chewing. "I'd have married David Horton. From the..." He indicated the television with his fork.

_Dear sweet lord._

"Not Richard Armitage?" Mycroft said, doing his very best to look neither petrified nor overjoyed. He wasn't sure he was managing either.

"God, no." Greg skewered a piece of chicken. "I mean... the bloke's well-made. I'll give him that. And he's probably a nice guy. I dunno, though... we'd end up just going to the pub, chatting about work and cars. Not in bed. I don't feel it."

Mycroft briefly envisioned Greg Lestrade and Richard Armitage in bed. It wasn't an _unpleasant_ notion.

He then envisioned Greg Lestrade in bed with someone else - someone rather more close at hand - and shifted with guilty delight beneath his fur blanket.

"D'you want another spring roll?" Greg asked, with a sideways smile.

_Please._

_Then kindly kiss the life out of me._

"You're too kind," Mycroft said.

 

*

 

As Greg carried the empty plates to the kitchen, they'd just started _Die Hard._ Mycroft was willing to admit to himself he'd selected a longer film partly in the hope Greg might stay to watch it - and if he didn't stay, Alan Rickman would make a very decent consolation prize.

Then Greg returned from the kitchen, got comfortable back on the sofa, and poured Mycroft a large glass of whiskey.

Mycroft took it, his heart singing.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Greg grinned. "It's your whiskey, Mycroft. Don't start this again."

"I was raised properly," Mycroft said, and watched in delight as Greg filled his own glass too. "You've done me a kindness and so I thank you for it. I quite clearly remain more in your debt than you are in mine."

"Are you serious? You've let me hang out on your couch all night, drinking your liquor and watching your DVDs - and you're in _my_ debt?"

"You rescued me," Mycroft said, "gallantly, from Accident & Emergency. You near-carried me up three flights of stairs. I am overwhelmingly indebted to you. Frankly, Gregory, liquor seems a sorry show of thanks."

As Greg's grin widened, his eyes flashing with surprise, Mycroft faltered.

"What have I - ?"

 _"'Gregory'?_ That's new. Been called a lot of things over the year, but never 'Gregory'... even my mum never called me Gregory."

"Were you - christened 'Greg'?"

"Well... no, I _am_  Gregory. That's what it says on the certificates, anyway."

"Then... why did she christen you 'Gregory', if she had no intention of...?"

Greg laughed. "I don't know. It's just... formal names, isn't it? It's like nobody knows anyone called Christopher, but we all know six or seven people called Chris."

Mycroft knew a number of people called Christopher. He didn't think he'd ever once called them Chris.

Clearly he was unusual in this.

"Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to... 'Gregory' seemed apt, I suppose."

"No, I - kinda like it, to be honest. It works from you." Greg's mouth curved, his eyes soft and dark with amusement. "Who knew?"

Mycroft's throat contracted. "I see," he said.

They'd missed the past few minutes of _Die Hard._

Mycroft didn't mind.

As they settled to watch again, Greg stirred beside Mycroft. He stretched out his legs and placed his feet beside Mycroft's on the coffee table. A moment later, he took a cushion to rest beneath them.

Amused, Mycroft shot him a glance. "You're not nursing two sprains. You don't need elevation."

"No," said Greg, sipping his whiskey. "I'm just a cheeky bastard, making myself at home."

 

*

 

Mycroft spent the final thirty minutes of the film dreading the final five minutes of the film. When they arrived, he barely noticed a single line of dialogue. The credits at last began to roll; Greg gave a sigh beside him, stretching, reaching up to rub his eyes.

"Have I taken up enough of your time yet?" he asked, with a quiet laugh. "I'd better call a taxi, hadn't I?"

_No. You've not taken nearly enough._

But Mycroft couldn't bring himself to say that. He didn't want Greg to leave - but asking him to stay would be transparent.

Perhaps it was time to draw the evening to an end, no matter the sadness it caused him.

As Greg cleared the glasses to the kitchen, and took the empty amaretto bottle out to the recycling, Mycroft began amassing his courage. His first thought was an invitation to dinner; to hell with shyness, and simply ask Greg if he'd be interested in a date - but dear god, how forward it might seem... and he didn't wish Greg to think he was forward. It had been an embarrassing span of time since Mycroft had had a partner. He was not the type to leap to such a declaration.

 _Coffee,_ he thought. _Perhaps. In the New Year._

That wouldn't be so bold.

And if Greg seemed unnerved, he could always post-modify the invitation - to talk about Sherlock, of course - some other professional matter - not to continue this wonderful, warming companionship and see where it took them together.

As Greg reappeared in the living room, Mycroft was ready.

Greg idled over to the couch. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"This is awkward," he said, looking down at Mycroft with a smile.

Mycroft's heart squeezed. "Go on."

Greg bit his lip. "Are you going to be alright getting yourself to bed?"

_No, inspector. I'll require extensive assistance with all manner of tasks, not least the removal of my clothing. How gracious of you to offer._

"I'm sure I'll be fine." Mycroft smiled, nervously. "My painkillers have helped to... and it's a small apartment. I imagine with some ungainly hopping I'll make it."

Greg grinned; his laugh was soft.

As he watched, one last Christmas wish rose up in Mycroft's heart - one small, final miracle. After every stroke of luck he'd been granted today, he didn't quite know how he dared to hope.

 _It is Christmas,_ he thought. If miracles were going to be granted to him on any two days of the year, it would be these two. His run of luck had been impressive.

Perhaps there was just a little left.

"Would you... help me to my feet?" he asked. "One final kindness. Then I must let you go, Gregory."

He hoped the request didn't sound as transparent as it felt. He'd have been perfectly capable of standing on his own - some grappling, some pain, some support from the sofa, and he'd have been upright within minutes.

But he wanted to feel the man touch him one last time - one last piece of gentle contact.

Greg merely smiled. He didn't mind.

"Sure," he said softly, and came over. He nudged the coffee table aside with his foot. Mycroft's heart began to beat hard. "How're we doing this? Like out of the car, d'you reckon?"

"Yes - yes, that might be best."  _I am a wicked person. This is exploitative of me._

"Alright..." Greg leant over the couch with a smile, lowering his upper body for Mycroft to hold onto. "Arms 'round my neck."

Gently, carefully, Mycroft wrapped his arms around those magnificent shoulders. Without a coat, they felt even more sublime. The cosy evening had warmed Greg's skin beneath his shirt, and though his muscles were firm and solid, the arm encircling Mycroft's back to support him was utterly gentle. Greg smelled of whiskey and work, and a little smoke.

It was desperately wonderful.

As Greg braced his other hand against the arm of the sofa, ready to lift, Mycroft closed his eyes. This felt so much like an embrace it hurt.

"On three?" Greg said, in his ear.

Mycroft suppressed a shiver. "Yes. On three."

"Okay..." Greg held him tighter. "One... two..."

As Mycroft braced for three, Greg tilted his head.

Their lips pressed.

 


	4. Fur

The boom of Mycroft's heart echoed out across London.

The building, the street and the city resounded with it, quaking to their foundations, as he realised Greg Lestrade was kissing him - _now,_ in this very moment, lifting a hand to his cheek, tender fingertips brushing his skin, their lips touching. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed. He responded with a gentle press of his lips as panic and exhilaration flooded his veins in equal measure, and felt Greg release a held breath. He kissed Mycroft again, slower and softer. The stroke of his mouth made every hair on Mycroft's body rise.

Trembling, Mycroft kissed him back.

Greg took his face in both hands, sealing their lips.

As Mycroft's entire world erupted into bells and fireworks, they sank together onto the couch.

Greg kissed as if he'd known all his life how Mycroft liked this - slow, tender, utterly in control, as if they wouldn't be doing anything else for the rest of their days. His lips curved as he caught Mycroft's first whimper, smiling against his mouth. It was the most appealing sensation Mycroft had ever felt. The kiss deepened as they wrapped around each other, and for long minutes there was only this feeling: stroking, softening and sharing, comforting each other as they ebbed from fear into relief. Mycroft felt himself relaxing into honesty at last; he couldn't stop shaking.

At last, Greg cupped his jaw and gently drew back.

Mycroft opened his eyes to the face of the man he'd adored for two years.

Greg smiled; his deep brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the lights.

"Was that a bit crafty of me?" he asked. He bit his lip. "Sorry, if it was. I've... had a really nice evening. You're great. Couldn't help myself."

_God in heaven._

_This is happening._ Two years of gazing at the man, burning up with despair as all sense fled and all composure vanished in a gale - and now they were lying on Mycroft's sofa, and Greg had kissed him, and it was Christmas Eve.

"Greg, I..." He watched, his heart shining as Greg's eyes softened. "I've... been drawn to you for quite some time now. You're remarkable. Forgive me if it's forward, but I... I wondered if you might wish to..."

Greg's gaze warmed. He leant down, caressing Mycroft's mouth with his own. Mycroft's heart leapt -  _second kiss._

Greg murmured against his lips.

"You know we'd be waking up together...? Christmas morning." He smiled. "Not got you a present."

Mycroft's heart nearly detonated. He'd been about to say _'accompany me for coffee'._

Greg's idea sounded rather better.

"A - backdated present could always be arranged, if you..." Realising he sounded like a fool, he swallowed hard, tightening his fingers in Greg's shirt. "If this is too soon for you, please say... b-but I confess I've admired you for - _so_ long..."

Gently Greg watched him stammer, his gaze soft.

"Let's just lock the door for the night," he murmured. "See where it takes us."

 _Take me. Take me, take me. Take me twice._ "Yes... yes, that seems..."

Greg stroked his cheek. "If you like, tomorrow... we could curl up and watch more terrible films. Keep that ankle and knee of yours rested." He smiled. "I didn't have any plans for Christmas. Did you?"

Mycroft was expected, barring national emergency, at his mother's house in Winchester for dinner. Sherlock was going to be there. There would be tedious card games, awkward silences and attempts at nostalgia. He'd either have to conceal his injuries, at great pain, or explain them - at even greater pain.

Mycroft decided Greg's company now counted as a national emergency.

"I have no plans," he said. He looked into Greg's eyes, heart fluttering, his voice rather faint. "Please do stay. You can - keep an eye on me, perhaps. Monitor my injuries. Continue your excellent care of me."

Greg's chest swelled against his fingertips.

"Medically, I mean... that's probably wise." Greg brushed a gentle thumb across his lips. "I should be here, in case there's something you need in the night."

Mycroft said nothing, allowing his eyes to speak for him.

Greg bit his lip.

"Let's get you up, gorgeous. I'll help you to bed."

 

*

 

Mycroft had never loved his fur blanket more.

Its stroke felt like heaven against his back. The sensation was second only to the warm mouth sliding around his cock and the steady thrust of two fingers inside him. As he moaned, stirring against the fur with each soft shock of pleasure, he carded his hands through the tousled mess of dark grey and silver hair between his thighs. It flickered between his fingertips, soft; he wanted to grip it. He wanted to tug.

Greg sighed at his sounds, shivering. His thick and gentle fingertips fucked Mycroft a little harder, a little more firmly, and Mycroft's body heaved with the feeling. He could only pant, gazing in heavy-lidded ecstasy at the bedroom ceiling, as the sensation began to ripple further and further outward through his body. He was losing all grip of his thought. He was melting, sinking, safe in Greg's gentle control, and it felt so good he barely heard the whimpers and pleas pouring from his mouth. Soft firelight fluttered across his skin and the sheets. Greg had lit every candle. He'd laid his phone with quiet music by the bed - now Mycroft was at his mercy, a few deep breaths from coming.

Dragging together the last of his fortitude, Mycroft managed to whimper for Greg to stop. Even the slip of his cock from Greg's mouth pulled him closer to the brink. Greg's fingers stayed within him, deep, stirring gently as Mycroft panted.

"You okay?" Greg whispered, and kissed his belly.

Mycroft's chest ached. This couldn't be happening - and yet it felt so real. "Bedside drawer," he whispered, trembling. "On the right."

Greg wound his way gently up the bed, mouthing kisses over Mycroft's candlelit skin as he went. "Your ankle alright, love?"

 _'Love'._ "Y-Yes..."

"And your knee?" Greg murmured, easing open the drawer one-handed. Mycroft screwed his eyes shut as Greg discovered the various toys and other items kept there, finally locating the box of condoms.

"My knee is f-fine..."

"And your back?" Greg asked with a glitter of amusement, as he tugged open the packet with his teeth. Mycroft squeezed gently around the fingers still inside him, trying his very hardest not to come at the sight.

"I-I am not decrepit," he managed in a rush, and earned a soft laugh for it.

"S'okay, love. I'll look after you in the shower tomorrow. You can lean on me." Greg's fingers eased free from his body; the loss of their thickness made him huff with distress. He watched, panting, as Greg rolled the condom carefully into place. "You sure?"

"Yes," Mycroft gasped. "God, yes."

"How's comfortable for you? For your knee?"

Mycroft shifted, drawing his uninjured knee carefully back and up. "C-Can you...?"

Greg eased between his legs and stroked a hand up the back of his bent thigh, helping to hold it in place. _Oh god, oh god. Oh, holy god._ "Mm hmm?"

"Yes..." Mycroft reached for a pillow. Together they negotiated it beneath his lower back. As he settled on it he felt his hips tilt gently, and realised with a rush this was it. _Like this._

He moaned, shivering; Greg coaxed closer and lined himself up.

"Okay?" Greg murmured.

_So gentle. Respectful. Kind._

_God help me._

Mycroft took a hold of his forearms, gripping them gently. He reminded himself to breath. "Y-Yes," he whispered. "Yes. Go on."

Greg leant down to kiss him.

As they eased together, it was the kiss which made Mycroft's heart thump. He'd adored the man for two years. He'd longed just to speak to him, to stand close to him or brush against him. His very presence turned Mycroft weak at the knees. He'd spent far too many nights in this bed, often by candlelight, imagining the sort of things Greg might say in some miracle world where he belonged to Mycroft - the things he might do; the kind of feelings he might invoke. He'd imagined these kisses a thousand times.

And now they were his - slow, soft and loving kisses, as with the utmost tenderness Greg gently took possession of his body.

_Oh, god._

_Oh, heaven..._

"Ohh... Greg..." He couldn't keep the words in. He whimpered them into the kiss. "Greg, please..."

His lover shivered, breathing in the sound of his own name. He began to move, slow and steady, responding with gentleness to Mycroft's own anxious rhythm. Mycroft swallowed his instinctive cry, trembling. The sensation of Greg moving in him was unlike anything in the world - the warm weight of his body, the scent of his neck, the intimate and desperate ache of his cock. It felt too good to stay quiet. It made him want to sob.

In only minutes he found himself clasping Greg's lower back, pulling gently, shaking. Greg adopted the rhythm, panting slowly against his neck; he whimpered with relief and enjoyment. Pleasure cascaded through his body in waves. It poured from their joining, from the side of his neck where Greg began to kiss and nuzzle, from the tight grip of their hands where they grasped each other's fingers.

"You okay?" Greg breathed, gazing down into his eyes.

Mycroft bit into his lip. _Inside me,_ he thought. _Moving in me._ "Yes," he whispered. "Y-Yes, I - I'm perfect..."

Greg's eyes shone. "You are."

Mycroft felt his heart whimper. "Ohh... oh, god..."

He closed his eyes.

Greg's mouth, his hands - his _cock -_ his voice, his scent - his weight, gentle and heavy and warm, pinning Mycroft gently into place, filling him - tender, rhythmic, slow.

This felt like more than sex.

 _Please. Please let it be more than sex_.

"You're so beautiful," Greg whispered against his mouth, his voice soft, breathing with each slow thrust. "You're gorgeous. I could watch you writhe on that fur for me all night."

Mycroft's heart ached. He didn't think he could hold back all night. Even now he could feel heat and pressure coiling in his abdomen, straining for release.

"Are you close, love?" Greg's voice came as a caress, tender and low. "Feel good?"

Mycroft nearly expired. "Oh, god - c-close..."

"S'okay, sweetheart... let it come..." Greg nuzzled beneath his jaw, breathing in his scent. "Maybe if...?" He let go of Mycroft's hand, reaching between their bodies. As his fingers curled where Mycroft needed them most, Mycroft gasped and stretched in desperation against his fur, arching, panting in time with the quick and deft strokes Greg began to give. "Mm hmm?"

"Oh god _yes_ \- " This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream. He'd hit climax any moment, and it would all be gone with the morning light - but he couldn't stop. He couldn't bear to stop. Mycroft whimpered, breaking. "Oh god, _please_ \- please harder - "

As he came, every nerve in his body blistered with pleasure. He felt Greg breathe his name against his mouth, a proud and whispering moan: _"Mycrof-f-f-f-t…"_

He would remember it for the rest of his life.

Greg's climax came only moments later. He turned his face into Mycroft's neck, moaning low in his throat and shaking, burying himself deep in Mycroft's body to come. The feel of Greg heaving against him in orgasm had no parallel in existence. Mycroft locked his arms around him, holding him, adoring him as he panted and shuddered with relief.

As they breathed together in the quiet, Mycroft became aware again of the room around them - music and candlelight, the quiet of the house. Greg's back was damp with sweat beneath his hands. His skin felt hot to the touch, his weight comfortable, and as he looked into Mycroft's eyes, his expression grew soft with the need to kiss and touch and reassure.

Mycroft nestled against him; Greg pulled him close.

"Your ankle," Greg murmured against his lips as they kissed, cuddling Mycroft's body with warm and protective hands. "Your knee... you okay?"

Mycroft's heart heaved. "I'm fine," he whispered. "I'm - s-so happy." He couldn't hold it. He couldn't lock down his barriers fast enough. "You are _beautiful._ You are wonderful."

Greg's eyes shone in the candlelight. "You've... been crushing on me pretty bad, haven't you?"

Mycroft couldn't lie. He swallowed thickly. "Yes. Yes, I... I like you very much."

"Should've come to say hi," Greg murmured, stroking his cheek as he blushed. "I wasn't sure you knew I existed. You were always... cold with me, maybe. Serious. Professional."

"I - didn't think you could possibly..." Mycroft hesitated, shivering. "Is this a dream?"

Greg's expression softened. He cupped Mycroft's face in his hands.

"No, sweetheart," he whispered. He kissed Mycroft's lips. "It's real, I promise. M'right here."

Mycroft's heart grew to twice its size.

"Then it's a miracle," he murmured. This afternoon, he'd been miserably alone in A&E. Now he was lying in the arms of the man of his dreams. "It's some magic. It must be."

Greg smiled; he stroked a kiss over Mycroft's temple.

"Never really cared much for it," he admitted. "Christmas... I'd - kinda given up on the whole thing. Didn't believe in miracles." He bit his lip. "Turns out I was yours."

Mycroft inhaled.

"Greg," he whispered. "Greg, I... I think I..."

Greg smiled. He gently cradled Mycroft's face.

"Kiss me, love," he whispered.

 

*

 

Three days later, on December 27th, Anthea knocked and entered her employer's office.

She was carrying a disassembled gift. It was still partly wrapped in deep purple flock, with an extravagant gold ribbon hanging loose around the sides.

"Sir, there's been a delivery for you. It was handed in at front desk."

Mycroft looked up from his afternoon Earl Grey in concern.

"Handed in?" he asked, as she brought it over. Her heels clicked smartly upon his wooden floor.

"This morning," she said. "I'm afraid security were forced to unwrap it to check the contents." She placed the dishevelled box upon his desk. A small smile curved her mouth. "They said it was the single most suspicious item we've received since Guy Fawkes asked if there was somewhere he might leave his coat."

Baffled, Mycroft pulled the box closer. He sifted through the crumpled wrapping paper.

As his bewildered brain made sense of its contents, his heart took flight.

A bottle of very good amaretto; three separate DVDs starring Richard Armitage; two packs of ibruprofen.

There was also a note, neatly folded at the bottom.

Mycroft reached for it at once.

 

 _Dear Mycroft,_  
_So it's a little late, but…_  
_Merry Christmas._ _  
From your miracle. xxx_

 

"Did security read this?" Mycroft asked, his heart beating so hard he could hear it.

"I don't know, sir."

He frowned, catching the overly casual tone to her voice. "Have _you_ read this?"

 _"No,_ sir," she said, appalled. _"Of course_ I haven't."

Mycroft repressed a sigh. "Those confidentiality contracts you signed when you commenced your employment... I hope you read them thoroughly. Especially the part about private lives of senior officials."

"Of course, Mr Holmes. Perish the thought."

"Excellent." Mycroft picked up one of the DVDs, surveying the back with great interest. _Perhaps this would be best enjoyed together,_ he thought.

He carefully masked his smile.

"Book La Phalène for half six, will you, Anthea? A table for two." He folded the note inside his waistcoat. "We'll need to stop at Scotland Yard on the way."

 

**The End**

 


End file.
